


Please make sure we get tomorrow

by Silberias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, PLEASE pay attention to the archive warnings, Sansa is NOT aged up in this story, St. Tyrion of the show is NOT the one depicted here, Tyrion's post-trial bitterness takes a different turn than in the books, not happy Tyrion/Sansa, not true Oberyn/Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 14:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: Before Joffrey choked to death at his own wedding, Prince Oberyn of the House Nymeros Martell invited Lord Tyrion Lannister and his lady wife to visit Dorne. After the arrest, and later exoneration, of that same couple he renews the invitation--and Lord Tyrion accepts. Perhaps if he had known what awaited him in Dorne he would not have been so eager to go.





	Please make sure we get tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueCichlid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/gifts), [branwyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/gifts).



> Okay so this story had three working titles: "Hi Blue/Branwyn, you should read my ugly, unhappy story!" which they did so kindly and wonderfully for the past two weeks I can hardly find words enough to thank them. They are each such dear, wonderful people and they have helped this angsty little monster come into full form! 
> 
> The other working titles I had for this story, well...they're a bit spoilery so I will put them at the bottom. :P
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, please let me know what you think!!

 

> Please make sure we get tomorrow  
>  All this pain and all the sorrow  
>  I demand a better future  
>  Give my children sunny smile  
>  Give them moon and cloudless sky  
>  I demand a better future  
>  \- A Better Future, David Bowie

* * *

 

They made her look upon him, her brave and broken husband. The Silent Sisters had even painted one eye stone dark and the other light. Her hosts gave her the whitest silks to wear for grieving the most tragic of accidents.

Sansa had not liked looking at Tyrion's dead body. Princess Arianne had led her into the room, where he was laid out, and out of it again after reciting the seven supplications with her. They walked slowly around the raised platform upon which the Silent Sisters had left Tyrion. He had been brave, there had been worth to him, and he had looked forward to meeting the babe he'd put in her. He said he hoped it were a son, to spare her until they could know one another better. He’d never raised his hand towards her, nor threatened her with his guards--the beddings had been…difficult, but Septa Mordane had long ago said they might be and that was well before they’d known what a monster Joffrey would reveal himself to be. Tyrion had said they would meet no harm in Dorne, that he hoped she would enjoy their travels there.

Tyrion at least had been happy to be in Dorne, joyfully eating the foods presented to him and going out adventuring in the shadow city with Prince Oberyn. The invitation to Dorne had been one he’d heartily and _publicly_ accepted--and one that Lord Tywin had had trouble forbidding him from, since it had been due to the bravery of Prince Oberyn that Tyrion and Sansa were even alive. If they failed to appear it would be a grave slight to House Martell, and not one that Lord Tywin relished accruing. His sole demand had been that they sail: it was not wise for a Lannister and his bride to ride from the Boneway all the way to Sunspear and back. It was meant to be a short visit, but first storms and then bad winds delayed them.

Before they set sail from King’s Landing Tyrion had ordered books from Oldtown, Starfall, and even made purchases from a sly bookseller from Lys on snakes and other creatures they might encounter in Dorne. He had often put one hand on her belly, back then just beginning to swell, and read aloud on how to keep snakes from entering rooms and how to react if one ever did get in. Tyrion was protective of her now that he was within sight of his goal. Tyrion Lannister would never be Lord of Casterly Rock, but his trueborn son would, whether Lord Tywin liked it or not, and until the boy came of age Tyrion would be his regent. It had hurt when he bedded her, for he was anxious to fill her with a babe, though he'd sometimes been tender to her if she cried--and he stopped lying with her when her moonblood failed to come, hardly two months later. She'd been grateful for his mercy, and she managed to return his little smile as he announced he was pleased with her. He said that she'd done well and he would see that she was protected.

When she asked if she might name the child should it be a girl, he’d said she would name it even if it should it be a boy. That had made her truly happy, despite the circumstances. Sansa didn’t know what name she would give the babe but she still had time to choose. She didn’t dare ask and could scarcely stand to think about the possibility the child was a dwarf--that it might be malformed and kill her as it was born.

Upon their arrival to Sunspear months ago Prince Doran had looked her up and down, taking in her red gown with the elegant slash in the surcoat to expose a gold kirtle, and given a slight nod before beginning his greetings. The dress was meant to show off the babe she was full of, modified from an old one that Cersei Lannister had worn before she’d borne Joffrey. Sansa did not know who Prince Doran had nodded to. There were none whose eyes he met, and there had been no acknowledgement of his nod. But Sansa knew he had given permission for something. The salt had burned on her tongue and the bread had soured in her belly--and later Sansa lay awake for hours, listening to the sounds of Sunspear at night. There was no blade tickling between her ribs but the fear of it kept her awake through the following day, despite her exhaustion.

Sansa was showered in gifts, small ones from her hosts and grander ones from her husband. Tyrion had gotten her fine silks to make dresses out of and jewels to begin her own personal collection--the jewellery of Lady Lannister remained in Casterly Rock, save for those pieces that were in Cersei’s possession. Her husband continued to leave her bed empty, and allowed her to make friends of Princess Arianne and some of Prince Oberyn’s bastard daughters.

She didn’t mean to tell them of the difficult times she’d had in King’s Landing, or even ever speak of the humiliating night the day after the trial by combat. It gave her jitters to think on it too clearly. But Tyene and El had raised the subject of her wedding, and impending motherhood, and Sansa had not been able to conceal the fact that the mere mention of her sharing a bed with Tyrion upset her. No doubt she looked a fright. It was true: there was no bedding ceremony at her marriage. But the babe in her was no bastard. Princess Arianne had hushed her cousins, admonishing them for upsetting Sansa’s sensitivities, and gestured for a servant to bring all of them some cool water.

As soon as a cup was in Sansa’s hand the princess stood up, laying a soft hand on Sansa’s shoulder as she left the room to fetch one of her fans. It had warmed her, the feeling of being honestly cherished and cared for was no longer a familiar one, and reminded Sansa at the time of meeting Prince Oberyn at Joffrey’s wedding. His smile broad, his posture relaxed as he mentioned he knew what transpired at their wedding feast.

Princess Arianne, Sansa later recalled, enjoyed a close friendship with her uncle and shared much of his temperament. And at Joffrey’s wedding Prince Oberyn had made much of his great-grandmother’s decree that no maid in Dorne be married before her fourteenth nameday. Sansa had not known what to say, neither had Tyrion, but there had perhaps been a message there.

One that Tyrion had possibly paid a price for missing. Prince Oberyn’s anger was formidable when he was crossed or when _his_ tender sensibilities were upset. Perhaps they’d had some kind of drunken argument the night before the Lannister ship was to depart. Perhaps Prince Oberyn expounded in greater detail than he’d felt comfortable speaking of in King’s Landing or during the rest of their visit to Sunspear. Tyrion had certainly been pale when he returned from his last adventure through the city with Prince Oberyn, the morning they set sail. Sansa had still been gently smiling at the parting gifts the Martells had given her--fine ebony hair combs inlaid with silver and lapis, a golden rattle, and an opal pendant. Prince Doran had given Tyrion a sand steed, commenting that he’d heard how Tyrion had praised the creatures and given them many envious looks. The horse was fairly miserable on the ship but it couldn’t be helped. Her husband had retreated to his personal cabin, claiming winesickness and asking not to be disturbed. His men had laughed at him, teasing that he should be used to Dornish wines by now.

Tyrion’s screams had woken them up in the early morning hours the next day, his favorite sellsword charging into the cabin he slept in and emerging soon after--Ser Bronn had commanded that Sansa be taken up to the deck, there was a snake loose in the hold, it had bitten Tyrion. He said he knew not the breed of the serpent, only that they must return to Sunspear posthaste. There was little time to treat a snakebite, their only hope lay in the maesters of Sunspear. In the end there was nothing they could do, though Sansa hadn’t known it at the time. She’d spent the journey back to Sunspear blotting at Tyrion’s forehead and summoning the wherewithal to give him gentle smiles. A snake must have gotten into his bedding, everyone said, and bitten him. Their small company had only been out to sea two days.

He was truly dying as they reached their destination, delirious and barely conscious as he was taken off the ship. The party waiting for them included Prince Oberyn and Sansa was relieved: she would no longer have to be in charge of Tyrion or his care. The relief was short lived. The prince spared not even a glance at the litter where Tyrion lay, moaning and breathing unevenly. Instead he strode to Sansa and took her hands, inquiring about how she fared. Sansa was paralyzed for a moment at the strangeness of it, the only answer she had was not appropriate. _The husband who ordered me to his bed, saying he'd been patient with me for long enough, is dying and you don't care enough to smile or frown at it. At least then I would know if you were on my side or his._

The maester had started to work immediately, though he admitted he held little hope. He showed Sansa the place Tyrion was bitten, above the tendon in his ankle. The skin had been blue and purple, not like a bruise but as though it had been dyed. The swelling had been horrible, but the old man had pointed at the punctures where the snake had gotten to Tyrion. The wound had wept an ugly bile, neither blood nor other pus. Her husband had died later that same afternoon, she'd heard his pained grunts from the antechamber where she waited and pondered her future.

Prince Oberyn had not attempted even once to console her for the loss of her husband. In that, at least, he was honest and decent. He didn’t care that Tyrion had died--perhaps Tyrion had never been meant to survive this visit to Dorne in the first place, and she was always meant to become a widow here.

Sansa knew Prince Oberyn had done it--either poisoning Tyrion or putting a serpent in his boots or bedding. She did not know if she ought to be grateful or not. There would be no proof but she knew him for a viper who walked rather than slithered.

For a few days, Tyrion’s sellsword, Ser Bronn, had stalked about the palace in a restrained kind of anger. He shared her suspicions and Sansa had hoped that he would find some kind of proof to at least allay her own fears. Instead, he sold his services, once his grief had passed, to the Dalts of Lemonwood. Lord Dalt had heard Tyrion’s boasts about Ser Bronn’s skills in King’s Landing. He required a master to train some of his men-at-arms, Ser Bronn explained as he bid her goodbye. He was decent enough to not look her in the eye as he lied. He cared too much about gold to mourn his friend for long--and without Tyrion there would not be any more Lannister gold to line his purse with.

With Bronn’s abandonment it was now Prince Oberyn who seemed to take the most interest in her, encouraging her to rest and giving her the most careful attention--he claimed to have studied diligently the arts and mysteries of how babes grew in their mothers, and how best to care for said mothers. If there were any question she might have, he said, questions that the maesters could or would not answer, she had only to seek him out. He was warm and kind to her, not overstepping himself even when they were alone. Sometimes she dreamed that he did, and Sansa would awaken in heated...something, her heart pounding so hard she felt it in her teeth.

He had a beautiful face, sharp-featured still, despite his age, and she remembered how he'd defended both her and Tyrion in King's Landing. Prince Oberyn had been as magnificent then as she'd imagined her brother Robb to have been on the battlefield. He had seemed to ride the sun itself in his victory, a valiant prince from the Age of Heroes. Unlike Robb he had triumphed, bellowing out his victory as Gregor Clegane slumped to the ground in a pool of his own blood.

"My lady, it is impertinent at this time I know, but when your child is born I would offer you both the protection of my brother and such knights as are sworn to him," Prince Doran said now, over a small dinner for only the family and his close advisors.

Sansa set her goblet down and met his eyes. She resisted smoothing her hand over her belly, enough people had already had their attention drawn to her condition. It was hardly forgettable these days on any account, she was probably only weeks away from being brought to bed.

"I can only be grateful for your continued care, Prince Doran," she replied, her words careful, for though Prince Doran no doubt believed all those present to be loyalists, she had learned that betrayals could still occur when there were Lannisters with gold to spend. She was to be the mother of the next Lord Lannister and Lord Tywin would no doubt be possessive.

"Lady Stark, I am unsure you took the full measure of my meaning," Prince Doran now said, "and I trust that what I say now will remain in the confidence of those now in this room."

It was a thrill to hear her name--her real name, as though it were still her own, but it also brought danger.

"My prince, it is not safe to jape of such--"

"It is no jape or cruel trick. You are the head of House Stark. We can do little to restore you to Winterfell but we owe you this much courtesy at least."

Sansa looked around the table, hoping for some reasonable set of eyes to meet but found none, and did not have much time to stop her mouth from spilling out horrible truth.

"Lord Tywin will steal my child no matter what name I'm called. It is half-Lannister, after all. Do not speak of hope when there is none."

Prince Oberyn replied to her when the silence stretched too long, his eyes intent on hers.

"If the child is not a Lannister in looks, then who is to say it is a Lannister at all? My fair Tyene shares nothing with me--neither nose nor jaw nor even the shape of her teeth--yet men acknowledge her as mine own child for the simple fact I claim her. You are the same, Lady Stark. You look nothing like your lord father, yet no man doubted you were his daughter."

Sansa pressed her lips together and said nothing. If there were spies here for Lord Tywin, they would not be able to say she had said anything amiss. Prince Oberyn had made his point though: if she bore a child that shared her looks, then there would be no way to prove it was fathered by Tyrion. An errant thought filtered through her mind: if it had her eyes and her father’s dark hair, she might even say it was the child of someone like Prince Oberyn.

“You are no doubt weary, my lady. We will revisit this another time perhaps?” Prince Doran’s tone was solicitous, so she nodded in agreement and tried to finish her supper. Mostly she cut the food into increasingly smaller pieces, eating every fourth or fifth bite, and downing the rest of the wine in her goblet.

It was a strange place to be, now, at the mercy and beneath the protection of the Martells but still belonging to the Lannisters. She liked the Martells though she knew she shouldn't. Tyrion’s family had killed members of her own as well was theirs but she could not bathe the world in blood--when would it all end, if she did? What if Tommen’s son held a grudge against her son? What if Princess Arianne’s child held a grudge against Tommen’s? She could end the cycle now if she was brave enough to.

Sansa walked to her chambers alone afterwards, ordering that a bath be drawn, and that she be left alone after it was filled. The hot water helped loosen the stiff muscles of her back, though it would be hard to get out of the tub on her own when she was done. It didn’t matter all that much. The maids would come if she called loudly enough.

The babe moved and kicked in her when she pushed her hand against her belly. Sansa smiled, relaxing backwards. Her child was strong and active, and it would rest when she hummed or sang. The smile faded from her face. Would the Martells kill it, as they’d killed Tyrion, if it looked like a Lannister? She dearly hoped not. She’d gone through quite a lot in terms of conceiving it, and if she lived through the birth she wanted to hold her child and watch it grow. The maesters had been gentle with telling her that at thirteen she was far too young to be carrying this child, that they’d seen many girls her age die shortly after the birth of their children. Their bodies just never recovered; they withered and died like unpicked fruit on the vine.

 _Mother was sixteen, not much my elder, when she bore Robb,_ she told herself, humming a song for the babe and dozing off in the water for a little while.

When she opened her eyes again the water was tepid, her candles burned down low. Her back ached fiercely and it brought tears to her eyes to stand and gingerly get out of the bath. The nightshift her maids laid out for her was easy to just pull over her head. Her soft bed didn’t do much to relieve her pain but Sansa was used to sleeping when she wasn’t comfortable and dropped off again soon enough.

Her sleep was full of nightmares these days and tonight was no different as Sansa woke again in the middle of the night. Her heart raced and she swallowed back nausea. Her back ached worse than before and a chill spread through her at the thought: it was weeks too early, but Maester Myles had said that pain in the night was one of the signs of childbirth. What if it were blonde?

 _What if it were blonde? What if it were a dwarf that split her open?!_ Sansa cringed away from the thoughts almost as soon as they entered  her mind. They were both too horrible to think of.  

Sansa levered herself up and out of the bed, gathering up a robe and tucking it firmly around herself. There were tragic tales of women who labored alone, but how else could she stay safe? The maesters were sworn to Sunspear and served the Martells. The Martells were kind to her, but they were hoping she would raise her babe as a Stark, that much had been clear. And they’d killed her husband.

Tyrion was not her choice. He had frightened her whenever he’d come to her bed--Sansa could certainly admit that much--but he had been her only protection in the world. How could _they_ offer her any, now that he was dead by their hands?

Prince Oberyn had said that walking would help the pain, that the maesters would have her walk for as long as she could. It was not difficult to recite her prayers in time with her steps, and when her back seemed to seize too tightly she would stop and say her prayers to the old gods. If the pains would make her a tree she would pray to her trees, Sansa thought with a weak smile.

The night was quiet around her and Sansa tried to stay equally quiet whenever she had to let out a whimper. It _hurt_ , and she was _scared_. She might manage to hide the child for a few hours but not more than that. Her belly would stay fat for at least a few weeks but nothing would hide the grizzling of a newborn babe. Her back seized again and a bolt of pain shot across her belly leaving Sansa gasping softly and tears welling in her eyes. Mother would have implored her to be brave, and Maester Luwin would have been as soft spoken and serious as he always was, while whatever brave husband she had paced outside the chamber. It was a pretty fantasy.

As the sky outside her windows lightened Sansa realized a flaw to her plan: soon the maids would come to wake her and help ready her for the day. She might be able to keep her pained noises from their notice but they watched her carefully enough that there might be some other sign she couldn't conceal. They _were_ well acquainted with her habit of waking before the sun rose to take a walk in the garden, and had learned to wait dutifully for her to return rather than seek her out. Where else would she go in this place? There were guards at every balcony so none could enter the palace through an upper-story window--and thus no opportunity to escape that way.

Sansa thanked the gods that she had simple slippers, no fancy laces, and her robe. The gardens were large enough here, not so sprawling as the Water Gardens but still commendable in their size, that it would be easy for her to disappear in an alcove. It was not safe, what she was doing, but she had to do it. She would die if they killed this child, her last bit of family. Everyone else was gone.

So wrapped up in her thoughts was she that she hardly saw Prince Oberyn slip out of the shadows and step into the hallway. Sansa heaved in a sharp gasp, drawing her robe tighter around her shoulders and taking a step back. He might have saved Tyrion and herself in King's Landing, but he had surely been the one to put a snake in Tyrion's bed. Her terrifying freedom from her husband was a boon she'd never asked for. It was a debt she did not want to owe the Red Viper and it dangled above her like a headsman's axe.

"You are up quite early, my lady," he murmured, moving neither towards her nor away.

"I did not sleep well, so I meant to walk in the garden. The air is pleasant this morning." She clenched her jaw down hard as another pain shot through her middle. It had been hours and hours and she hoped her labor would not be much longer--but she did not want to let Prince Oberyn see that there was anything amiss.

"I meant to have a walk as well. I heard the whimper of a cat; it had me pausing near your door. Allow me to accompany you?" He offered his arm to her.

Sansa swallowed thickly. Could she hide the state of things from him for the duration of a walk? She would have to, for it was his fashion to walk with her, his long legs suited to her own and his paces thoughtfully slow. Tears burned in her eyes. She had no excuse ready, and refusing him would arouse his suspicion.

"Of course, my prince," Sansa said, putting a hand in the crook of his arm, light as a butterfly.

"I hope that my brother’s words last night did not upset your rest, my lady," Prince Oberyn said as he stepped from the hallway to the garden path. "We meant only to reassure you that you are not alone, despite your losses. If you wish to stay in Dorne, we will do all we can for you. It...did not enter my mind that perhaps you intended to accompany your husband's bones to his father's halls. I beg your forgiveness if my brother or I gave offense."

But hadn’t he killed Tyrion? Without accusation or trial or verdict, he had visited his own justice upon a man who never had an opportunity to defend himself. Perhaps he was innocent and Tyrion had indeed not checked through his things. He didn’t overlook a lot, but he’d been feeling relaxed and comfortable. If Prince Oberyn was innocent then--then--then Sansa didn’t want to think about it. She took in deep and controlled breaths, limping a little and leaning harder than she'd wanted to on Prince Oberyn's arm.

"You gave no offense, it was only-- _!_ " Sansa's words were cut off with a pained cry as her belly convulsed, and her feet went almost out from under her. Without Prince Oberyn's arm to cling to she would have fallen to the ground straight away. As it was she fell to one knee, gasping and fighting to get her footing once more.

Her companion put his arms under her shoulders and knees, lifting her from where she'd fallen with relative ease. He also started asking her questions, his voice high with concern, and Sansa could only whimper and shake her head. He would take her to the maesters and the child would be _blonde_ and they would kill it as they'd killed its father...

A hysterical thought took her, even as Prince Oberyn swept her up in his arms. She should lie to them--she should tell the maesters that Tullys were always born with yellow hair, if they had hair at all, and it darkened to auburn as they aged. There were no more Tullys for the Martells to consult. She would not be found out in a lie for at least a year or two, and by then...by then, perhaps, she could figure out how to escape.

Gradually, Sansa realized that Prince Oberyn was carrying her to Maester Caleotte, murmuring along the way that the old man had brought Oberyn himself into the world, that she would be safe. Sansa didn’t answer him, only lay her head against his shoulder and gritted her teeth. It was only a few minutes’ walk through the palace, but the aching pressure was starting to become painful in and of itself. As they reached the maester’s quarters, her lower body spiked in pain once again and Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. Her jaw seemed to creak as she tried to keep from screaming.

Prince Oberyn laid her down on the padded table in the corner of Maester Caleotte’s chambers, and the coldness of the leather shocked her senses. This was really happening, right now, and there was no stopping it. She bit down on another sob. Both of her grandmothers had died in childbed--and Tyrion’s mother had died bearing him.

“If I die,” she said, “name it for my parents. Eddard. Catelyn.”

Her voice was reedy with fear. She seized Prince Oberyn’s surcoat as she pleaded with him, but the Red Viper made no effort to argue, and that frightened her more than anything.  He only took her hand and kissed it. “If it comes to that,” he said.

Sansa couldn’t remember when another person entered and took her hand, only that she was grateful to not be alone with Prince Oberyn and the maester. Maester Caleotte’s fingers had been cool against her skin when she arrived but now they were warm and wet when Sansa noticed them at all. Sometimes it felt like minutes between the rising and falling pain of her contractions, other times she had enough time to cry and ask when it would be over. “Not much longer,” a woman’s voice--Ellaria?--said, almost interrupted by another’s saying “You don’t know that, don’t lie to her.” The argument quickly faded and all that Sansa remembered was _not much longer._ She would have her little one to hold, to protect as best she could. _Not much longer_.

When the maester ordered her to push she was hardly sensible--but the agony quickly focused her attention. Everything was sharp. Everyone’s voices, her own screams, the pain in her hips and between her legs--and at the same time she was numb to everything but the thought that it wouldn’t be much longer. She hoped she wouldn’t die. It felt like being torn in two. Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, only to jolt back awake when someone started patting her cheek.

She met Prince Oberyn’s gaze and swallowed hard. She hurt all over but it seemed, looking into his face, that her ordeal was done--and she, for the moment at least, still alive. Then she heard it. It sounded more like a whimper than a scream, but it was insistent nonetheless. Maester Caleotte was muttering in a soothing voice. Sansa’s heart lurched, and she made to sit up--to stand, to go and fetch her baby--but Ellaria’s hands appeared and ushered her back down to the pillows piled under her shoulders.

“A difficult birth, to be sure, my lady, but you will recover and have more children. Speaking of which, you are mother to a little girl,” Maester Caleotte said cheerfully over his shoulder before finishing what he was doing and crossing to her, the infant he held crying a little more forcefully now.

“Thank the Seven,” Prince Oberyn said under his breath, perhaps thinking Sansa would not hear him.

The maester laid her little girl in her arms. Dark brown hair was plastered to her head, not yet dry, and Sansa kissed that hair first. It was the same color as Father’s, as Arya’s and Jon Snow’s and Uncle Benjen’s. A Stark. The little girl was a Stark.

“What will you call her? I must record it in my book.”

A little girl. A little life. Sansa cried, short, sharp gasps in and out, hardly believing that this child was real. She hadn’t wanted it but it was hers, hers alone. She could hardly see through the tears but she searched out Prince Oberyn’s face to give him a wan smile. Sansa wished that he was not a vicious killer, that this prince of her dreams did not live by the maxim Sandor Clegane had told her of once. That all men were killers and they all enjoyed it. But still there was something to be grateful for--she’d given life to a daughter, not a son. Tyrion would have wanted a boy, an heir, to escape his father’s yoke. He would have waited only until the maesters told him she was recovered and then ordered she return to his bed. Again and again until she gave him a healthy son or her body failed her and she died.

Instead he mouldered, senseless and powerless in his casket. Prince Oberyn had murdered him to save her.

“She will be...she will be…” Sansa’s voice was quiet with indecision--Catelyn and Arya were still too raw. She would not raise a girl afraid of her own name, and Sansa knew that she herself would be unable to bear it. Maester Luwin had had a book about House Stark, detailing the achievements of her ancestors and the events of their lives. The names of their children and grandchildren. It was the book her father had pored over while Mother labored with Sansa herself--it was where he’d found her name, the old maester had told her when she was small, as well as Rickon’s and Arya’s when they came.

The first Sansa of House Stark had had a sister, Serena Stark, who was an ancestor of Houses Cerwyn and Umber. This babe did not seem suited to be Serena, though. Already Sansa knew the girl might grow up half wild for having such an inexperienced and youthful mother. A child of Winterfell without expectation of ever calling the halls ‘home’ but nevertheless a Stark.

“Let her be named for my father’s mother. She was a Stark in her own right. I am the second Sansa Stark, so she will be the second Lyarra Stark.”

“And would you then have her struck as Lyarra the second of her name?” Maester Caleotte ought to have not concerned himself with such a thing. The fact that he did showed he was loyal to not only Sunspear but to the Martells, Prince Doran especially. Sansa was exhausted but she had her wits about her.

“No,” Sansa said softly, stroking the baby’s cheek, “my grandmother was never a queen. Not as this girl could be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> And the main working title for this story was "Tyrion gets super poisoned" and the secondary title was "Tyrion brings Sansa to Dorne, Oberyn kills him, things happen" It was great.


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